Slip of the Tongue
by weethreequarter
Summary: For Sherlock, emotions were complicated things, difficult to understand. They came much easier to him when he didn't think. However, on the downside, that often led to complications, as he wasn't always aware of what he was saying until it was too late. Sherlock/John


**I started this three years ago, got halfway through and had no idea where I wanted to take it. A few days ago I opened it up, had an idea and wrote the rest.**

 **Since series 3 came out, I've fallen in love with John/Mary and their friendship with Sherlock, but when I started this it was pre-Mary. I still like to read the occasional Sherlock/John fic however.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **XOXOXOX**

John left the suspect's house, trying to contain his smile at what he'd found out under the guise of being a journalist again. Once he was out of sight of the house he pulled out his phone and called Sherlock. It rang twice before he picked up.

"Yes?"

"It's me. I think-"

"I don't want to know what you think John, tell me what she said," Sherlock interrupted.

Rolling his eyes, John relayed what the suspect had said, before tagging onto the end, "I think she did it."

"I did ask you to tell me what she said and not what you thought, but in this instance at least, you seem to be correct. For once."

"Thank you," John replied sarcastically.

"You're welcome. I'm texting Lestrade now."

"Okay. I'm going to stop by the shop on the way home, we're out of bread. I had to ask Mrs Hudson for some this morning. Do you need anything?"

"Hmm...?"

"Do you need anything?" he asked. "From the shop?" John added, just incase Sherlock decided to ask for body parts or chemicals or goodness knows what.

"The milk's gone off..." John could tell by Sherlock's voice that he was distracted texting Lestrade.

"I only bought it two days ago."

"Forgot to put it in the fridge this morning. Left it by the radiator."

"Genius," John sighed.

"Aware of that already thanks. What about the milk?"

"I'll get some on the way home, okay? See you later."

"Love you."

"Bye," John said.

He hung up, took three steps then froze.

XOXOXOX

Sherlock finished sending the text to Lestrade, wishing the man had _some_ sort of brain so that he didn't have to send such complicated, long messages explaining why he should arrest the woman. Glancing around the flat for something to occupy himself until John returned, Sherlock's eyes fell on the curdled milk. Had he told John they needed more milk?

Frowning, he replayed their conversation in his head. Ah yes, he had told John about the milk, so... Oh. Oh. _Oh_.

What had he done?

XOXOXOX

In the middle of the pavement, the whole of London rushing around him, John Watson stood frozen, the last few lines of his conversation with Sherlock running through his head like a record with the needle stuck.

 _I'll get some on the way home. See you later._

 _Love you._

 _Bye._

 _Love you._

 _Love you._

 _Love you._

Sherlock Holmes had just said love you. To him, John Watson. Bloody hell. Any minute now, John was pretty sure he might start hyperventilating. But, he reasoned, love you wasn't the same as I love you. Love you was casual, to anyone you cared about; I love you was romantic. John groaned. Who was he kidding? Love you from Sherlock was like any normal person professing their love for you to the world.

The strangest thing was how natural it had been, as though it was thrown out there all the time. Love you. And how good it had felt, so good that he hadn't noticed immediately.

Love you.

Simple.

It was anything but.

XOXOXOX

As a sociopath, Sherlock was not good with feelings. He didn't understand them. They'd always been easier when he didn't think. Like when he pulled the bomb off John, desperately asking him if he was alright. Then he'd started to think again, and his thank you had become garbled. If he hadn't been distracted texting Lestrade about closing the case, then he wouldn't have said that thing. But like it or not, he had said it. Now all that remained was to wait for John's reaction.

XOXOXOX

John made his way slowly up the stairs. He'd finally forced himself to move from the spot on the pavement, get the bread and the milk and made his way home. Although he couldn't find any real enthusiasm to do any of it, because it would all lead to the impending, inevitable confrontation, which John could only really see ending badly. Actually, he couldn't see it at all. But he had a feeling it wouldn't go well.

"I'm back," he said.

"I noticed," Sherlock replied from his armchair, without looking up from his book. "Got milk?"

"Yep."

"Good."

Silence fell, only broken by the creak of the fridge as John put the milk away. Taking a deep breath to prepare himself for the inevitable, John returned to the living room, sitting carefully on the edge of the couch.

"Sherlock. We need to talk."

"We talk all the time."

'We need to talk... about what you said."

"You're going to have to be more specific John. I've said rather a lot to you during the time we've known each other."

"What you said on the phone today."

"Narrows it down. Which part?"

"The last part." 

"Ah. That."

"Yeah," John said. "That. Why did you say it?'

"I have no idea," Sherlock replied, still apparently absorbed in his book. John tried to fight the stab of hurt.

"Right." He looked up at the ceiling, telling himself that he was stupid, stupid for hoping that maybe, just maybe, those two words had meant something.

"You're surprised," Sherlock observed. "Is it because you thought it meant something or because you're disappointed because you think it doesn't?"

"Does it matter?" John paused. "What do you mean because I think it doesn't? You just said-"

"I just said that I had no idea why I said it," Sherlock interrupted.

"Did you mean it?" John asked quietly.

"It's irrelevant."

"Not to me it isn't. Did you?"

"Yes!" Sherlock snapped, meeting John's eyes properly for the first time.

There it was again. Speaking without thinking and emotions came tumbling out. Sherlock cursed himself inwardly. Silence fell. Neither knew what to say. They stared at each other until the awkwardness began, and they both looked away.

"This always happens."

Sherlock spoke so quietly John almost missed it.

"What? You always fall in love with your flatmate?" John asked.

"No! Every time I don't... think. I say... stupid things. About stupid things."

"I'm a stupid thing?" John asked quietly.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Stupid things like feelings."

"Feelings aren't stupid Sherlock."

"I can't control them!"

'They're not meant to be controlled, they're just meant to be."

"But _why_?"

John shook his head.

"I don't _know_ Sherlock. Some things aren't there to be analysed, or explained, they just exist! Like it or not feelings are one of those things."

XOXOXOX

Things were decidedly cool between the two friends over the next few weeks. Sherlock was working on a minor case for Lestrade; not particularly complicated, but the suspect was proving frustratingly elusive. But not so much that he required John's help. Thankfully. John meanwhile had taken on extra shifts at the surgery, often working into the evening in the hope of missing Sherlock. Which never worked of course, as the detective was often up late tracking his suspects movements.

It wasn't that he was angry with Sherlock. Well, maybe a little. But not because of what he'd said. On the contrary, John found himself with an inexplicable, warm, fuzzy feeling whenever he remembered Sherlock's voice saying "Love you." No, the problem was Sherlock's reaction. Despite the fact that he quite clearly had feelings for John, feelings that John was beginning to suspect he returned wholeheartedly, he equally clearly wanted the feelings to go away. And that hurt. A lot.

But so did this. Spending next to no time with Sherlock, not talking to him, joining him on cases, or arguing about who had to buy the milk this time or why there was a foot in the toaster hurt more than John thought was possible. It actually ached. It was like being homesick, except he was at home. Just without his best friend. Because despite everything he was Sherlock's best friend, always would be. But every time he'd tried to start talking to Sherlock, the detective had always remembered a pressing engagement that required him to be as far from John's presence as possible.

That hurt worst of all.

Then before he knew it a month had past. A whole, painful, lonely, silent month of no cases, no sarcastic comments, no deductions, and no violin. Christ, he even missed the bloody violin. _This must be what going mad feels like_ , John mused in his office between patients. Because no sane person would miss that caterwauling waking them at three in the blessed am. Chuckling at his own insanity, John paged the receptionist to let his next patient know it was their turn, silently resolving to talk to Sherlock tonight even if he had to chase the lanky git all over London. Which just made him chuckle again and he greeted a patient with a genuine smile for the first time in over a month.

But since when does anything ever go to plan when it comes to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?

When John arrived home that evening, something instantly felt wrong. He'd been spending far too much time with Sherlock he thought, before their recent hiatus that was. But he knew that Mrs Hudson never left her cleaning products lying about, certainly not in the hallway. The woman was far too house-proud for that, as witnessed by her cleaning of Sherlock and John's flat despite Sherlock's constant complaints that he could never find anything when she did and her constant reminders that she was "not your housekeeper, dears."

And the other thing was the door. The door to her flat was open. There was no way in hell she would leave it like that, not after Sherlock had once provided them both with a three hour long lecture on all the ways someone could break into a house and attack the inhabitants. John himself hadn't slept for a week, and he was an ex-soldier. Mrs Hudson had invested in a deadbolt and chain the very next day.

"Mrs Hudson?" John called. Something told him that no reply would be forthcoming, but he double checked her flat, just to be sure. When she's not there, John instantly turned and ran upstairs, swearing loudly when he sees the unconscious figure at the bottom of the stairs to his room. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Oh thank God," he muttered as he found a pulse in her neck.

But the gash on her head looked serious and he had no way of telling how long she'd been lying there. Surely if Sherlock was home he would have heard her fall, but then again, when the detective was in his mind palace the world could end and he wouldn't know. Or if he was playing that bloody violin.

"Sherlock!" he hollered, wrestling his phone from his pocket and dialling 999. "Yes, this is Doctor John Watson, I need an ambulance to 221 Baker Street..."

While he waited, John tried calling Sherlock, but there was no answer from the detective. He left several successive voicemails until the ambulance arrived.

"Sherlock, it's me. Please call me back. Now."

"Sherlock, call me."

"Sherlock, I know things are... Look, just call me."

"Sherlock, answer your bloody phone!"

"Sherlock, for God's sake, answer the phone! I know you have it with you, you're practically superglued to the thing. And I know you're listening to these because you're... you! Call me back!"

"Sherlock, if you don't call me back, I am going to shoot you myself."

"If you don't call me back in ten minutes, I'm calling your brother."

The last one he left as the paramedics placed Mrs Hudson in the ambulance, and was the one he meant most – with the possible exception of his threat of shooting. Of all the times for Sherlock to be a bloody drama queen...

As he paced back and forth in the A&E waiting room, John called Mycroft, silently praying the elder Holmes brother would take his call. To his relief, after only two rings, Mycroft answered.

"Where is Sherlock?" John asked, dispensing with any pleasantries.

"I believe my brother has liberated Miss Hooper of a kidney and acquired to use of one of Mr Stamford's laboratories," Mycroft replied.

"Well he- Wait, when you say he 'liberated' Molly of a kidney, you don't mean one of _her_ kidneys, do you?"

"No, I believe its former owner was one Miss Jayne Greene. Now, what can I do for you Doctor Watson?"

"Tell Sherlock to get his arse to Barts A&E or I'll shoot him myself for not answering his bloody phone."

"Temper, temper Doctor Watson-"

"Mrs Hudson is in hospital," John snapped. "I think your brother would want to be here."

There was a brief pause, then Mycroft replied, "I shall call him immediately."

"Thank you."

John was outside Mrs Hudson's room, waiting for the doctors to finish settling her in before he could visit. They had informed him that someone had paid for a private room for her, and John took more than a little satisfaction in knowing that he'd managed to terrify the great Mycroft Holmes, even just a little. Suddenly he heard loud voices from down the corridor, and knew without a shadow of a doubt that his flatmate had arrived. Sure enough, with a whirling of Belstaff, Sherlock marched through the double doors, ignoring the shouts of those left in his wake. His usually cold mask had slipped; the worry and fear and – dear God, had he been crying? - red eyes showed exactly how the detective felt about the woman supposedly no more than his landlady. John felt a sudden rush of affection for the man.

"It's alright," he said, pre-empting the muddled, half-formed questions. "She's alright."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, his voice thick with emotion. He stared through the window into Mrs Hudson's room.

"Looks like she missed the step and fell down stairs. Concussion and a chipped bone in her hip," John explained. "Nothing serious."

"Don't be ridiculous John," Sherlock snapped. "Concussion is very serious. Honestly, you call yourself a doctor! Concussion can-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "She's fine. Honestly."

They fell into an awkward silence, as both of them realised it was the first time they'd spoken properly in over a month.

"So, um... How are you?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you really doing small talk?" John replied.

"Thought I'd give it a go. Won't be trying that again."

John chuckled, eliciting a brief smile from Sherlock.

"I'm fine Sherlock. Bit lonely perhaps, but I'm fine."

"I thought you went out with Jeremy last week."

"Greg," John corrected. "And that's not the same."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, instantly cursing himself and his inability to filter his emotions when upset.

"Because he's not my best friend."

Sherlock turned sharply to look at him, so sharply in fact, that John was worried he might have damaged his neck. For a good few minutes, Sherlock said nothing, he simply stared at John. Just when John was beginning to think that perhaps he'd better call someone to see if Sherlock had had a stroke or something, the detective spoke.

"I'm your best friend?" he asked quietly.

"Of course you are."

"What about Garfield?"

"Greg," John repeated. "You're doing that on purpose, aren't you? Greg's my friend, but he's not my best friend. That's you. It's always been you. Nothing'll change that Sherlock."

"Not even what I said?"

John shook his head.

"You're an idiot, you know that?"

"It's been mentioned," Sherlock shrugged. But John saw the smile twitching at the edges of his mouth. They relapsed into silence, watching the nurses settle Mrs Hudson in her room.

"For the record," John continued after a while, without turning to look at Sherlock. "Love you too."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock fail to stop himself from breaking into a grin. John allowed a smirk to cross his own face, grinning widely as a hand slipped into his own.


End file.
